A Cat's Eye for Detail
by BonGarland
Summary: Prompted by a friend to do a Swap!Lock scenario, I chose Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, and..This happened...


**I don't even know.**

* * *

It was a rainy evening, and Sherlock Holmes, the young gentlemanly landlord of several apartments on Baker Street, had just settled on the sofa and opened an old leatherbound copy of Jane Austen's _Persuasion_, a guilty pleasure of his, when a door slamming loudly echoed throughout the building. He sighed, replacing the bookmark he'd just pulled from between the aged pages, and heaving himself to his feet to gauge the latest situation with one of his most interesting tenants, the older lady who lived in 221B. Martha Hudson.

The unassuming name should not fool anyone. She was a widow, a genius, an ornery toad, a consulting detective, a busybody, a violinist, and a scarf connoisseur, among other things. In short, a very difficult occupant, but one who paid her rent steadily and provided ample amusement when it suited her. Apart from the occasional wall being employed for target practice, or failed chemical experiments being hurled from the second-story window, there were few actual problems with her residing there.

Her pride and addiction to crime-solving had led her to branch out from armchair philosophy to active investigation in partnership with Scotland Yard on occasion, her involvement ever-increasing. Lately, she had been involved in the resolution of several high-profile cases, and Holmes' phone had been ringing off the hook with demands for his apartments to be let to several "groupies" of the impressive lady.

Cautiously opening his own door, Sherlock peeked out into the hallway, not knowing whether to expect police detectives storming the building to demand answers from Martha Hudson, or to anticipate a boot thrown at his head for simply making eye contact when she was trying to think. The woman was known for her "thinks", a deep reverie that typically led to a solved case, the kind of pensiveness that if interrupted was liable to get you shot on the spot, shrieked into deafness, or merely insulted so thoroughly that you were tempted to promptly move to the countryside and try to rent a rabbit hole to live in.

Mr. Holmes was surprised to see no visible sign of distress in Hudson's expression, she was just...Meowing, to herself. Over and over. With no visible explanation for the slammed door, Mr. Holmes ventured a greeting. "Evening, Martha…Windy outside?"

The lady, who had begun to ascend the staircase, paused, her gaze finally swiveling downward to meet his, her pensive meowing ceasing. "What?"

"I thought the wind had slammed the door shut, er…" Suddenly, a soaking-wet umbrella was hurled over the banister, sending Sherlock ducking back into his doorway. Bipolarity was another of her traits. Unpredictable displays of moodiness, usually in the form of a hurled object with the potential to maim.

"Pardon me, marm, have a nice evening!" Holmes yelped, eyes wide as he closed the door on the sight of the drenched umbrella a few feet from the door, as menacing as a crouched panther in that moment. With his body pressed against his door, he let his breathing calm, and listened to the resumption of stomping and loud humanoid meowing that showed Martha Hudson was headed upstairs again. Idly wondering what sort of case it was _this_ time that was eliciting such an episode, he decided not to pursue any friendly chat this evening, and rejoin calm, wise Jane Austen by the fire.

* * *

Martha Hudson entered her apartment stormily, immediately shedding the burdensome raincoat her landlord had insisted she leave with earlier in the day, as if she couldn't be trusted to walk about however she liked in whatever weather she liked. Pneumonia was an old foe who had been beaten many a time, most predominantly in her memory during the Baskerville case out on the moors; who _hadn't_ wandered the misty, volatile climate up there with no regard for personal safety and well-being, braving both ravenous beasts and mother nature, anyways?

Moving to pace before the unlit fireplace, a hand to her chin, Martha thought, and thought, and thought. And meowed. It helped to channel the subject of her cases.

An exotic Persian cat had gone missing from a high-end pet store several streets away, in a ritzy shopping area; it was the only feline of that sort in the shop, and despite an advanced security system in the building, a locked cage, and vigilant employees, the little beast had gone missing around closing time two days ago. Distraught employees had gone to feed it the next morning, only to find a stuffed toy in its place.

It was _not _her average case, and she had taken it in secret, having been propositioned in whispers by an employee when she had covertly stopped in this very morning. No one would ever be told by her lips, and the fact would never be admitted outright, but Martha Hudson had a soft spot for animals. Cats, in particular; sly, cunning animals who could come and go virtually unnoticed and unsuspected; she could much relate to the things, she felt, and admired them very, very quietly, from a distance.

Something was definitely off about the pet shop owner. He had appeared very falsely concerned with the disappearance of the feline, wringing his hands dramatically in the backroom Hudson had been summoned to, pacing to and fro with harsh steps as if that would jar the cat from some hiding place. And when Martha shook his hand and accepted the case, she had looked past the man to the coat rack in his office, noting the dark hairs haphazardly located along the arms of his long trenchcoat, but nowhere else on the material.

She had inquired if there was insurance on the "inventory" in the store, and he had nodded, his eyes shifting about the room suddenly as if he were a caged animal himself. She nodded, and had bid him good day, deciding to walk home in the rain instead of taking a cab.

* * *

Only two minutes after she had arrived home, Hudson had the solution. And it had only taken so long because she had been preoccupied on the way home by a case of graffiti on a newspaper stand. She had spoken to the man who ran the stand, assured him it was his teenaged son acting out, and continued on her way, reading a complimentary newspaper, as the case would not take much thought once she was home.

Despite the fact it was nearing midnight, she grabbed her aged cellphone, which she refused to upgrade, and called Lestrade, the detective she most often consulted for at Scotland Yard. He answered groggily and his tone was quickly colored by annoyance as the conversation progressed, but ended the call on a promise to meet Martha Hudson at Villa de Pet the next morning.

Martha blindly hurled the phone onto the nearest piece of furniture, this being a rickety side table, and it just happened to skid across the surface to a stop an inch from where the table ended. She paid it no mind, moving to the window and staring into the darkness, wishing for a case that would actually tax her, a case where an innocent animal was not the progenitor. She was above this, her intellect was beyond.._catnapping. _

* * *

Martha Hudson was a terrible timekeeper, a fact visible from her sleeping habits, her comings and goings from Baker Street, and the multiple messages on her cellphone on any given day, reminding her of missed appointments. She showed no concern over any of it, ever; she kept her own time, and that was that. The world could time itself around her on occasion, she felt.

And so it happened that, unable to get her to answer her cellphone, which had gone unnoticeably uncharged all night, Inspector Lestrade had phoned Sherlock Holmes, her landlord, requesting he find a nice way to wake her, and get her to the pet store at the time _she_ had suggested in the first place. He knew at this point to anticipate tardiness, but was taking hopefully preventative action, glad that _he_ would not be the one within throwing range of whatever objects she would have at hand this morning.

* * *

An hour later, Martha Hudson stood before the front counter of Villa De Pet, waving a hand airily as she rattled off the details of the crime that had been committed. It was almost hard to take her seriously, Lestrade was thinking, clad as the older woman was in a tartan bathrobe, having decided she was less willing to meet him at that early hour than she had been the previous evening. Thus, she had left the house as she was, in housecoat and well-used slippers. No one knew where to look as the woman explained how she had solved the case.

"And I noticed the multicolored hairs on the sleeves of Mr. Martin's jacket, indicative by both color and length of an animal with an identical coat to the missing Blue Cream Persian having been held by, and subsequently struggling against, the perpetrator of the catnapping who had been wearing that very garment. He hadn't thought to have the jacket drycleaned yet, as he was busy settling the cat into, presumably the back room of his flat to keep it concealed until a blackmarket buyer who would not request official paperwork could be found, which is interesting, since the insurance claim the man had taken out would _certainly_ cover a spot of drycleaning, isn't that right, Mr. Martin? The paperwork you unfortunately had spread across your desk when I was called to help solve the case by your good-samaritan employee was the collection of documents detailing the insurance covering the value of the cat a good four or five times over; there was also a receipt in your wastebasket for a litterbox, litter, and catfood, from a rival pet store, so your employees, knowing you were more a dog man, judging from the framed poker game being played by dogs on your wall suggested, would not ask questions. You also had several scratches across your hands, untreated due to your haste and occupied mind of the past two days, and festering, it seemed, probably because they had been inflicted by claws that had been in contact with a litterbox and by extension, feline feces, which is undoubtedly soaked into those cuts, by the way. It was interesting to _begin_ with that a simple part-time employee would be the one to request my help, instead of you the owner. But you never wanted the cat found, did you, because you were the one to take it, with intention of selling it _and_ pocketing the bountiful insurance claim stemming from the theft?"

"I…the thing's yowling was driving me bloody mad, I had to make it worth my while to have the damned thing in stock..." The large man was stammering, beet-red as he gestured frantically with his hands, and Lestrade moved forward to garner a more clear confession, while Martha Hudson turned, work done, and trudged out the door, her worn slippers scuffing against the pavement as she regained the sidewalk, waving a robed arm to summon a cab.


End file.
